A Study In Fairytales
by IAmTheRedLady
Summary: James Sacker had definitely noticed Ford Hope. Not that James was into men or anything. (Sherlock Holmes/Dr. Watson in the OUAT!verse. AO3 crosspost.)


****Set during Season 1 of OUAT. Male slash (fairly innocent though). Slightly influenced by BBC _Sherlock_ (Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman's respective portrayals of Holmes and Watson). Light swearing.  TW: mild drug abuse.****

* * *

James Sacker had definitely noticed Ford Hope.

Not that James was into men or anything. Ladies from three different continents could attest to his heterosexuality. But damn, if James had been gay, Ford Hope would definitely be his type. Tall, lithe limb, dark brunette curls, the most striking eyes, pronounced cheekbones, gorgeous artisan's hands...

He was an odd one. He'd been admitted several times to the hospital, with chemical burns usually. But James knew perfectly well he was a violin instructor (while usually impatient and snappish with adults, Hope got along surprisingly well with children), so the wounds didn't quite add up.

James tsked playfully as he limped into the urgent care cubicle, his cane thumping on the ground. "Third time this month, Mr. Hope. You really should be more careful with your chemistry set. You sure you don't need some adult supervision?" He grinned, teasing.

Hope gazed at him with those alarming (entrancing) eyes of his. "Do you ever get the feeling we know each other, Doctor Sacker?"

"Well you have been in here before," chuckled James.

"I mean from outside this hospital."

"Doubtful. You don't frequent Granny's, do you?"

"Obviously not," Hope rolled his eyes.

"Well then I can't imagine. Why, do you know me?" James asked.

Hope looked his toes. "I don't believe so. I wouldn't have deleted you."

Definitely odd.

* * *

James could recall the first time he'd treated Ford Hope. He'd walked into the exam room, that piercing state had fixed him, and Hope had asked him in a voice like melting dark chocolate, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The paramedic froze. "Afghanistan," he answered hesitantly. "Did...the nurse tell you I'm ex-army then?" James didn't even think she knew his military history.

"No one had to, I merely pay attention." Hope held out his wounded thumb. "Well, get on with it."

Hope had a way of seeing people, things about them. It was like he could read minds. It was terrifying. James was fascinated.

The burns were usually on Hope's hands, but today they were higher up his forearm. James gently took hold of it to tend the offending wound, but noticed several small round bruises trailing along the major vein in his arm. "Hey-"

"The _burn_ , Dr. Sacker," Hope said.

Well now James knew why Hope was so pale and thin.

One evening, as James was leaving the hospital at the end of his shift, he jumped as Ford Hope grabbed his shoulder from behind unexpectedly.

Hope scanned him briefly, and claimed: "PTSD. I was right. I'll bet that limp is psychosomatic too."

James glared at him. "Jesus, you scared me to death. What do you want?"

"I'm going to check that Nolan woman's car. I suspect foul play." Everyone in Storybrooke had heard about the incident. Kathryn Nolan's husband (recently thought missing and turned out to be a comatose patient in their very own center) had been having an affair with a schoolteacher, so Nolan had decided to leave for Boston. But she'd never made it-her car had been found wrecked and abandoned at the town limits, with no sign of its driver. "Come with me," said Hope. It wasn't an order, it was a statement, as if this was just the norm.

"Come with you to look at a crime scene?" said James incredulously. "Why me?"

Hope shrugged. "I do appreciate company occasionally, and I've found you aren't as drearily dull as the rest of them."

James looked at the setting sun. "It's getting pretty dark."

"Exactly, Sheriff Swan wouldn't let me past the tape in the daytime."

James was pretty sure this was illegal. He tagged along anyway.

At the scene, Hope nodded. "Just as I thought. Miss Nolan has been kidnapped."

"Ford, you can't just go around making wild accusations-"

"Oh for God's sakes, James, look, here in the dirt. There's a trail of footprints leading away from the car, a pair of boots, mostly likely a lady's, but she didn't come from the car. There's also a pair of lines drawn across the ground, like a pair of stiletto heels being dragged through the soil. The wearer, most likely Nolan, was clearly forced out of the vehicle by the owner of the boots. Kidnapped," Ford repeated, with a smirk of triumph.

James's mouth hung open. "That...was amazing."

Ford blinked. "You really think so?"

"Of course it was, it was...extraordinary," James said in awe.

James may have been imagining it, but he thought Ford blushed. "I still believe, somehow..." Ford stepped closer to him, entering his personal space, and James's heart rate picked up. Ford's remarkable eyes studied him for the longest time. "...I know you," he murmured.

It was the most intimate moment James had ever shared with another human being.

The next time James saw Ford, it was two days later. James was stationed on the EMT beat, and his ambulance had been called to Ford's dingy apartment complex in the not-so-pretty part of Storybrooke.

Ford was on the floor, passed out, obviously suffering from a drug overdose. As his partner was downstairs fetching the stretcher, James ripped open the man's (obscenely tight) silk button up, and started doing compressions. "Come on, Mister Hope, stay with me!"

He squeezed Ford's nose, forced his jaw open, and latched his own mouth around those (full, pink, gorgeous) lips and exhaled hard into his lungs.

Ford stirred. His eyes fluttered open, spaced out, then focused on James. "Watson?" he murmured confusedly, delirious.

"That's it, Ford, stay with me," James instructed, continuing to administer the CPR till Jenkins returned and they loaded him into the van.

Several hours later, when James was off duty, he visited Ford, who was lying up in bed, tired and annoyed. "I'm fine, I knew you'd come in time, that's why I called-"

"You stupid bastard, you could've died!" James exclaimed. "And for what, some idiotic science experiment?!"

"No, I...I don't know!" Ford huffed, frustrated. "Look, I don't know how to explain it, but you and I have some connection, and when I'm high...it's like I remember, I see you and me, it's all so obvious. Then I sober up and it's all gone again."

"Spoken like an addict," James mumbled angrily.

Ford glared at him. "You feel it too. I know you do. Otherwise, why would you care?"

James glared right back, and his rage was a lot more potent than Ford's sulking. Ford visibly shrunk back into his bedding.

"You're right," James declared bitterly. "Why would I?" He left the man all alone, gritting his teeth as he slammed the door shut.

* * *

Weeks went by. James saw nothing of Ford Hope. He couldn't have been more miserable.

Watson. Ford had said _Watson_. Why did that name keep nagging at him?

Then finally, one day, the rush of True Love's magic washed over the town, and the army doctor remembered.

He dropped everything and sped in his truck to the grubby apartment. He burst in to find the slender man standing in a daze in the middle of his living room. " _Holmes!_ " he gasped, in a British dialect that hadn't come naturally to him until roughly five minutes ago.

The other man turned at the sound, his eyes widening as he laid eyes on him. " _John_ ," said Sherlock Holmes, grinning wide, reaching him in two strides and eagerly pulling his dearest friend into a tight embrace.

The two men stayed like that for several long minutes, then pulled apart. The first words from Dr. John H. Watson's mouth were: "Good Lord, Holmes, all this fatty processed food of the future and you're still as thin as a rake."

Holmes laughed fondly. "My dear friend, I'm glad to see the Evil Queen's spell hasn't changed you."

"Perhaps we haven't changed, but the rest of the world has," Watson said. "Women wear men's _trousers_ , Holmes! Telephones with the dimensions of a deck of playing cards one can carry in one's pocket! Hot water at the mere turn of a nozzle!"

"Yes, yes, it's wonderful, is it not?" said Holmes. "Now, old chap, I do believe I have the cure for that unfortunate leg of yours." Smiling gently, he craned his head down and pressed his lips to the good doctor's.

A small flash of color, and Watson dropped his cane, standing up right and unsupported again, reaching up to cup the detective's face. They kissed for a moment, then Holmes broke away, chuckling.

Watson was blushing red, looking surprised (but certainly not unhappy). " _Sherlock_ ," he breathed.

"Ah, my poor Watson," Holmes laughed teasingly. "Did you not know how I love you? I thought you must have at least suspected. Too good an actor for my own benefit, I'm afraid. I admit, I always thought you might reciprocate my sentiment. Your flirtatious manner as James Sacker confirmed my suspicions. I'm sorry for keeping my feelings to myself, but I did not want loving me to put you at risk of being publicly shamed. Luckily the Curse was more of a blessing in disguise in our case. Our illustrious mayor has brought us to a time and place where men of our nature no longer have to hide in fear."

Watson tackled Holmes to the sofa and kissed him soundly. "You rapscallion! You've loved me all this time?!" he exclaimed, too miffed to be happy and too overjoyed to be angry.

"You are my true love, John," said Holmes, his eyes swelling in adoration. "The one fixed point in a changing age. I've loved you always, with all my heart."

Watson smiled at his detective, feeling his eyes scrunch at the corners.

"Now, come, man," said Holmes, stroking his cheek. "Kiss me again. We have much time to make up for."

Watson obediently leant down to connect their lips once again. They were so busy, they didn't even notice the purple mist roll through town.


End file.
